


Strings Attached

by x_los



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Corsetry, Dom!Blake, M/M, Season/Series 02, Sub!Avon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:39:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4925329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Avon takes Carnell's wardrobe advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strings Attached

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by Aralias  
> first reader elviaprose
> 
> (there's a Sayers line in there, you'll know it when you see it (if you've ready Gaudy Night, and if you haven't, don't read me, go read that, trust me))
> 
> This fic was originally published in the zine ['Pride and Prejudice'](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Pride_and_Prejudice_\(Blake%27s_7_zine\)) (ed. Aralias, 2015). You can read other fics from this zine by searching [the collection](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/PrideandPrejudice). You can also purchase your very own copy of the zine by contacting the publisher.

Carnell was a psychostrategist – a very brilliant one – and he was technically on the run from the Federation ('technically' in that he was, indeed, a fugitive, but he seemed to be a comfortably stationary one). Orac had happened across a remote update to a high-security personnel file acknowledging this change of status, and Blake, always on the lookout for valuable defectors, had had the bright idea of asking Carnell to join his fight against the forces of tyranny.

Only Orac, guided by Avon's familiarity with the Federation's banking systems and Avon's knowledge of precisely what questions to ask, could have traced the relevant bank transfers that had guided them to Carnell. They could be sure, therefore, that the Federation weren't going to drop in during the recruitment drive. Aside from the inherent danger involved in having _any_ dealings with a puppeteer, the mission was simple enough – in fact, it was so far from fraught with peril that Vila had volunteered and even Avon hadn't been able to object too strongly to it. After all, psychostrategists were a civilised breed. While it would certainly occur to them to shoot unwelcome guests, they were more likely to simply turn them away. That would make for a wasted journey – but then the possible benefits were enormous, as Blake pointed out.

Carnell was also, judging by the transfers Avon had tracked, too wealthy to need to turn the Liberator crew in to the authorities for the bounties on their heads. Given the extent of his personal resources, Avon suspected Carnell would have found the prospect vulgar. And he was too savvy to turn them in to the Federation in an attempt to re-enter their good graces. Servalan was rather like Mister Darcy from the old-calendar novel – her good opinion, once lost, was lost forever. (Well, that and she was handsome, wealthy, and possessed of a residence Avon coveted.)

It wasn't much of a shock when, arriving at Carnell's house, Blake, Avon and Vila were shown into a room where tea sat waiting for them, cups milked and sugared (Vila) according to their preferences and positioned where they were likely to sit down. Perhaps they weren't milk-in-first people, but social prejudices aside, it was the chemically superior method of serving tea. Carnell's hospitality had its limits – these did not stretch to what he believed amounted to spoiling a pot. Carnell was a man of few convictions, but that itself made him prone to honour what scruples he possessed. The tea hadn't been poured yet, which indicated that Carnell remembered he was mortal, and knew how fast the stuff went bitter or cold. Avon noted all this (it was perhaps easier to decipher Carnell's preparations than it had been to make them) and found he liked Carnell, obscurely. That didn't mean Carnell wouldn't get them all killed – after all, Avon _loved_ Blake, and nothing was likelier.

"Do sit down," Carnell said, and they took the chairs he'd known they would – Blake directly facing him, hoping to use his charisma and commitment to will Carnell into considering his proposition seriously, Vila nearest the door in case they needed to leg it, and Avon at Blake's right hand. Avon winced, slightly. Probably _that_ would not come up in conversation – still, he'd have preferred not to know someone besides himself knew.

"I presume you can guess what we've come to ask you?" Blake's tone was surprisingly courteous, and he was smiling – a touch ruefully. Clearly he didn't think he'd win this one, and by his own scruples he couldn't try to force Carnell into it – he could harangue Carnell, but not actually coerce him.

"Blake," Carnell shook his head indulgently, "be serious. How could I not?"

"It's pretty obvious," Vila admitted.

"While you may know our primary purpose, you _might_ be surprised by any secondary enquiries," Blake said. "For example, I suspect Avon would also like to know where you get your eyeliner – it would suit his general aesthetic." Blake gave Carnell a 'may I?' look and, without waiting for a signal that it was acceptable, poured out tea for all assembled, starting with Avon.

"Thank you, Blake, but I am perfectly capable of making my own sartorial enquiries," Avon said sourly, picking up his cup.

"What, of the prostitute who sold you those boots?" Blake tsked. "Surely she _must_ be busy, and besides, light years away now."

"This from a man who unironically spends his days in a series of Robin Hood costumes." Avon took a sip. Avon had been lucky to find thigh-high leather boots in his size, and Blake was surely just jealous that he had larger calf muscles, and thus would never be able to pull off any of his own. "My compliments – this is, of course, excellent tea."

"Do you like it?" Carnell smiled. "I had you for an Assam man, Avon."

"Did you now?" Avon smiled back. He enjoyed flirting, provided it didn't mean anything. When it did, he still enjoyed it – he just _also_ knew it was a bad idea and kept frantically trying to stop himself from doing it, with limited success.

Blake cleared his throat. "May I take it from your hospitality that you're not _entirely_ uninterested, then?"

"How optimistic of you! As a matter of fact, I'm not _entirely_ uninterested – but I am _ultimatel_ y uninterested. For the time being. Check back in, say––" Carnell considered for a moment, probably theatrically, "three years. If it's convenient."

"You mean if we're still in one piece," Vila said.

"You always were clever, Vila – yes, as a matter of fact that is exactly what I mean. I see a few firm possibilities for your trajectory – though of course, without having all the data, I can only theorise in vulgarly broad terms. Some of these possibilities make calling on me within the time frame I mention possible for you, and desirable for me. Some of them... do not. And I'm afraid one can't lay a bet on a colt, as it were."

"No, but you _could_ give us a hint," Blake suggested, still on his best behaviour – clearly hoping not to put Carnell off. "A sporting chance. Surely."

Wouldn't it be nice to be as valued? Avon thought sourly. One of the best minds in his field, and Blake would never have extended this kind of courtesy to him.

Then again, if Blake tried it, perhaps he wouldn't respond particularly well. There was no denying that Blake knew how to manage him – and people generally. He was rather too good at it for Avon's taste. Perhaps he should have gone into puppeteering. But then the psych tests would have weeded him away from that path early on – Blake had always been too impatient for the steady, careful work of analysis, and too prone to rebellion for the Federation to risk giving him any position of power.

For his part, Carnell, detached by nature and hamstrung by his own knowledge of consequences and pluralities, could hardly do Blake's job and lead a rebellion himself.

Yet Blake also apparently possessed too good a mind to waste lightly, or the Administration would have simply found a way to kill him young. Someone had taken a calculated risk with Blake's skill and personality profile, and lost. Somewhere a puppeteer was swinging by his own strings. Carnell probably knew that, and was probably bearing it in mind as he made his own, cautious decisions about Blake. Avon, too, might well have a puppeteer's death behind him – and Jenna. Whatever career-centre overseer had missed Vila's circumnavigations of the system was probably dead as well, provided the Federation understood how dangerous Vila was to them well enough to care. They were always sloppy when it came to thinking about anyone but birth-graded Alphas. It was a mistake that would cost them, one day.

Carnell was giving Blake a patronising look at the idea that he, Carnell, might give him a 'hint.' _Really_.

"It simply wouldn't help you – that much I do know. And when have you ever gone in for predestination, Blake? If you truly believed in it, you'd make better use of Orac's capabilities – ah, but when you tried to, it collapsed around you, didn't it? Certain resources really aren't your style – they're like weapons you can't wield. Best to let them alone and do what comes naturally to you – again, for the time being."

"Why are you interested in assisting us at _any_ point?" Avon asked, leaning forward and suddenly fixing Carnell with an intent look.

"Yes," Blake mused. "You must feel some interest in the downfall of the Federation, if you're eager for us to get back in contact with you – but not enough to help us get to that point."

"Lazy?" Vila asked, with an air of sympathy. "Just can't be bothered? Is it the danger? The ship? The company of these charmers? I know I'd prefer your digs, myself."

Carnell took up his own teacup. "Goodness me, no. It's more – how to put this? Well, you'll forgive me for saying so, but one of the hazards of my profession is knowing more about people than is socially acceptable. Comfortable, for most of us. I feel as though I already know you all, for one, and as such I'm almost sympathetic to your interests. Except Vila's current considerations as to whether he could make off with this hot, still mostly full teapot – I'm rather fond of it, and would be unhappy if it went missing. Almost as unhappy as you, Vila, would be to be scalded. Best to abandon the idea all 'round, I think.

"And there again – I believe you _can_ accomplish your aims. There is a chance – not, I'm afraid, a good one, but better than I've ever seen. Frankly, gentlemen, the Federation doesn't provide me with an excellent sphere of action. It's all very grim and petty, and whatever people think, human life is actually more complex and interesting when it's productive rather than destructive. Human psychologies and their pathologies are, if anything, richer and more varied in freer conditions. The change itself would be a relief – I can even, once the tide turns, probably secure you the participation of …hm, let's say 67 or 68 per cent of the psychostrategic organisation. But trust me when I say that at the moment, I can't be of a great deal of use to you."

Carnell paused a moment, his expression that of a man who'd just realised he'd left something behind on the bus, and then spoke again. "There is one thing, perhaps. I didn't anticipate it, but now that I've met you – yes. I think so. Though of course I do have my price."

Vila sighed feelingly. Like Avon, he cared deeply for the contents of the treasure room, and hated to be parted from them.

"No, not that," Carnell said, correctly interpreting the sound. "I'd like – it's a terribly silly request, I know – to play chess with Orac this afternoon. Supervised, naturally, lest I run off with him. I believe Avon is his designated handler? And the one most likely to shoot me, should I try anything unwise. Besides, Avon is the person my advice is for, anyway."

And so Avon found himself watching three challenging boardless games, trying (with some difficulty) to follow their rapid progression. Orac won each, though with major concessions of material, and losing appeared to provide Carnell with a childlike pleasure.

"I don't suppose you're familiar with Freud's 'Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious'?" Carnell had tried as he'd initially sat down. Avon had given him a look. "No," Carnell agreed, "I thought not. It's elementary reading for our lot, of course. Still, perhaps it's for the best. You're already more self-conscious than is really helpful to you." Carnell had then focused on his game to the extent that he'd seemed to forget Avon was present.

"By the way, Avon," Carnell remarked over an hour later, midway through a modified Ruy Lopez opening, "that second crack Blake made as he left – that the advice I was likely to give you was probably fashion-related – does he make many references to your choice of apparel?"

Avon considered it. "Notmore than he does to his favourite topics. Enfranchisement seems to weigh more heavily on his mind, in general. But yes – whenever I wear these boots, at least. And there are a few other articles of clothing he seems to have taken a particular dislike to."

"I wouldn't call it a dislike, necessarily," Carnell said thoughtfully. _En passant_ took one of Orac's pawns, and Avon smiled at the markedly shrill tone of Orac's response. "And he poured the tea for you, first. He looked at your cup initially. And then at Vila's cup, because he thought about deflecting the impulse. But then he indulged himself. Well. There it is."

"There what is?"

Avon shifted uncomfortably. He didn't doubt Carnell's observational powers, but neither did he think that pouring tea weighed much against Blake's regular shows of disdain.

Carnell tsked. "You know, Avon, if you survive long enough, you really will learn to trust me. Well, perhaps not trust me – to value my advice. B _six_. Do you know, Avon, I'm feeling rather hopeful about this now. Across the planet, in the capital, you'll find a Terra Nostra stronghold in the lower levels of the civic opera house, extending out into the catacombs. Gauche, isn't it? Well, perhaps you wouldn't think so – but for those of us with a sense of restraint, I must say, it _is_ tacky. It's one of their Sorella branches, by the way – though there may be some male guards in their employ. Yes, I suspect there will be. This branch is a relatively important link in the Federation's partnership with the organisation. Servalan used to be more-than-sorellas with their leader, and they remain on good terms. They're a decent target for your regular hit-and-run raids, and attacking them may set in motion a few beneficial chains of events. Not at first, not obviously – but in the fullness of time."

"And, of course, taking them out will eliminate a potential inconvenience for you," Avon said. "After all, perhaps Servalan will visit this good friend of hers, and perhaps – though admittedly the chance is slight – she might encounter you while on the planet. _That_ might make your stay here unpleasant."

"Naturally that is always a possibility," Carnell agreed, making an uneven trade in Orac's favour and wincing pleasurably while doing it, "but I also like the opera, Avon, and right now it's crawling with de facto Federation agents who enjoy public dress-up almost as much as you and Blake do, and who actually like _Wagner_. The programme is a mess. Oh you'd be doing me a favour, I agree – but also helping yourselves. That _is_ the most congenial state of affairs, surely? Oh, and Avon, the most important thing about the whole affair, the thing you absolutely must do––" Carnell lost to Orac and applauded the machine, who was sure to be an insufferable jackass about his day out for weeks to come, and to ask when they could visit _Carnell_ again, and to complain that the crew did not respect him like _Carnell_ did, "––is raid their closets, after you're through."

*

Avon hadn't necessarily intended to take Carnell's demeaning fashion tip. He'd told his mother when he was five, and he told Blake every time the subject came up, that he could and would pick out his own damn clothes. But then he'd seen how Servalan's old flame dressed, and had …reconsidered.

'Vila, help me with these boxes' was apparently a magic code that transformed Restal into a powerhouse of industry.

"What are we stealing?" Vila asked, breathless, as pleased as Carnell had been at the end of his and Orac's 'oh go on then' special _kriegsspiel_ round.

" _Everything_ ," Avon had purred.

"Oh, you do know what to say to a man."

Blake wouldn't have wanted to waste time hanging around, but Avon had convinced him that they needed to take all the data and supplies stored under the opera house with them onto the Liberator, to inspect at leisure. He'd implied, via a sneering comment, that Blake might want to _redistribute some of this wealth_ on the next poor planet they dropped in on. Blake had responded, like Carnell and Vila had, to his own particular brand of intoxicant, and had wandered around the flight deck for a while in happy abstraction, trying to choose the perfect Cratchett family to bless with his munificence and Servalan's ex-ex-girlfriend's candlesticks. Eventually, murmuring something about firming up alliances and how Sarkoff would really _get_ that settee, Blake had _finally_ departed, leaving Avon to it.

Now, granted, some of the women's clothes would make for a more genderqueer presentation than Avon had gone for since his university New New Romantics phase, but the rest …he could work with.

"Bless you, Carnell," he murmured, rubbing his fingers over a leather corset he thought would really look more like a waistcoat, provided he wore it over a ridiculous billowing shirt like the ones Blake favoured.

*

"What in _hell_ are you wearing?"

Blake sounded actually angry.

They were alone on the flight deck. Avon had just come in holding a data pad, prepared with some really cutting remarks about Orac's latest Hits from the Newsfeed. Telling Blake about current events kept Blake informed, kept him angry at something other than Avon, and made him attractively, passionately agitated. It woke Blake up after long hours of brooding alone on the flight deck. It was their morning routine, and Avon liked that they had one.

He did _not_ like that the idiotic subject of apparel was coming up again. Besides everything else, he and Blake typically sneered at the tabloid shots of Servalan's latest getups at lunch, Blake knew that. Blake hated her callous decadence in the face of the suffering of the common man, and her strange, tiny bolero – what the hell was that? There was a time and a place for sartorial discussion, and it was over Cally's vile vegan lasagne. (He and Blake had bonded over Round 1 of the lasagne yesterday. Poking it, Avon had said 'remember that fellow you told me about, the one on Cygnus Alpha?' and Blake had responded 'yes, I think this could use a generous helping of real cheese as well.')

"It's new," Avon said, curtly. "I'm so flattered you noticed." He was not, though he rather felt he should have been. "Now, look at this––"

"You can't wear that in public," Blake hissed. "It's indecent."

Avon crossed his arms. "It is a waistcoat. I'm wearing it over a shirt. It is not, therefore, indecent."

"It's a _corset!_ " Blake's voice had become a rasp at this point, and he looked close to apoplexy.

"Perhaps in a former life––" Avon sniffed. "But then Jenna was once an estate agent, and we've all agreed not to mention it. You of all people, Blake, believe in change."

Why did Blake always have to ruin things? One pleasant diversion came Avon's way, enabling him to repurpose a stupid garment, and Blake couldn't let it bloody rest. It was as though he wanted them to dress in matching outfits. Hell, Avon bet Blake _did_ want it, in his heart of hearts – Blake's Rebels, visually branded with a complimentary jewel-tone colour-scheme.

"I believe in you changing out of _that._ "

Avon grit his teeth and stepped too close to Blake. "Do you? I never thought of the self-appointed champion of free will as a _prude_ , but I'd like to see you try and make me, Blake."

"If you insist."

And to Avon's actual shock, Blake began physically hauling him back to his room by the arm without looking at him, leaving the flight deck unguarded. Granted Jenna always came in right after breakfast, but for Blake to leave the flight deck unattended for ten minutes was unheard of. Avon could have stopped him by dragging his feet or something of that nature, but he was too bemused not to want to see where this was going. And being hauled back to his bedroom by an urgent Blake almost made Avon think that Blake might _not_ be effectively Marx-sexual. Though surely that was too nice a thing to happen to him. Maybe Blake was _possessed?_ Was it Cally's day off?

Blake got Avon all the way to Avon's own room, half-shoved him inside, and turned to go.

"Wait a minute," Avon said, properly angry himself now. Blake had been forceful but not violent, but Avon dragged Blake back rather less gently and shoved him against the wall. "You are not capable of dictating my behaviour unless I allow it, Blake. Therefore you are not allowed to control how I conduct myself. And you are _not_ allowed to behave like this without providing a rational explanation – or as close as you ever come to one, at any rate. You will acknowledge these facts and apologise for your mistake, or our partnership, such as it is, is at an end."

Avon didn't really feel Blake's current behaviour was a mutiny-level offence, but he did feel Blake needed keeping in check. He also perpetually thought that he should, if he knew what was good for him, leave Blake, for the sake of his own longevity and emotional health. Occasionally saying as much vented his own frustration, and provoked Blake in a satisfying way. It felt like picking at a wound. When Avon dug into Blake, Blake displayed enough anger to make Avon feel valued – even if he didn't display _quite_ enough feeling to provide Avon with cathartic satisfaction and reassurance. But then Avon craved a level of reassurance Carnell would no doubt have called gauche, and he knew he wasn't going to get what he wanted, even as he angled for it. He just couldn't help himself.

Avon's criticisms sapped Blake's energy, and he sagged against the wall and rubbed his eyes with his hand. "All right, Avon. All right. I'm sorry. You can wear what you like, for god's _sake_. It's just I'd prefer you not to wear _that_ , for _mine_."

"And why should I do anything for your sake?"

"Fine, Avon, just––" Blake turned to go, obviously intending to deliver his closing argument from the safety of the hallway. He was glaring pointedly at the door.

"No. Stay where you are. You still haven't explained yourself."

"What is there to say? I was wrong, you were right, are you _happy_ , Avon?"

" _Rarely_. Now – why should I change, Blake? Isn't this what you want from me? A willingness to hear you out? To let myself be convinced?"

"Because I find it personally distressing, Avon. I am _asking_ you not to. _Please_."

"Oh, I can see that," Avon shot back, "but it's a non-answer. And you can't even look at me while you deliver it. Pathetic."

Blake swung his head to glare at Avon directly, biting out each word with precision and maintaining eye contact rather than looking down. "Because I have a _fetish_ , Avon. There. That's why I'd really rather you didn't wear the _boots_ or ... _that_ in public. I'd ask you to refrain from leather generally, but I think we both know that's unrealistic."

Avon blinked. "This ... fetish of yours. Is it – for clothing, specifically? Does your new regime of modest dress extend to the entire crew?"

"It's the clothing," Blake said, immediately and with an air of conviction.

Avon gave Blake a pointed look.

Blake rolled his eyes. "It's also _you_ in the clothing. There you are. Is there anything else you'd like to know, while we're here? I think it developed when I did a double degree in History and Engineering, because god knows it's not what the modern working girl wears. Any further questions, or can we consider this farce at an end?"

"I have a comment, rather than a question."

"You _would_."

"Am I, then, to _infer_ ," Avon continued in a surprisingly even voice, "that you would be interested in me if I, say, dressed like Vila––no, that's taking it too far."

"I take your point," Blake said, slightly less angry now. "And yes. _Obviously_."

 _Obviously_. The nerve of Blake sometimes. "And yet you've never seen fit to inform me of this state of affairs."

Blake rolled his eyes, and they came to rest staring up at the ceiling. "I wasn't aware that our company by-laws required me to confess every unrequited crush that crossed my mind. I'll be sure to send you status updates on official letterhead in future." (Avon didn't point out that he didn't know what letterhead was, actually. Something to do with Blake's esoteric double degree, no doubt.)

"It's something of a shame that you find yourself merely infatuated with me," Avon agreed, unbuttoning his shirt underneath his improvised waistcoat. "Because I find myself rather more interested in you."

"…What?"

"Still, I suppose we can make something of that."

Unbuttoned, the shirt slid awkwardly out from under the corset and over Avon's head. Providence had smiled on Avon's sartorial choices generally today, and his trousers, somewhat looser than the ones he usually favoured, came off over his tall boots without providing him with more than a little ungainly difficulty. His underwear was too functional to be enticing, and Avon contrived to slide it off with the trousers, unnoticed.

"There, now."

Blake had fixed his gaze in the direction of the bathroom, and Avon watched his Adam's apple bob hard in his throat and grinned. He leaned up and kissed it, and listened to Blake's breath catch.

Blake's head slowly turned so that he could look at Avon. He swallowed again, visibly. His pupils were large and dark and his expression looked soft and pained and determined.

"Oh, _Avon_ ," he murmured, and Avon knew he would have fallen in love with Blake then, even if he'd only been here for a fuck. And he knew that Blake was, as usual, concealing the whole truth from someone who had every right to know it, seeing how closely it affected his life. Blake was in love with him. Oh, he liked corsets, and god only knew when he'd last had sex (not any time after boarding the London – which was part of what had convinced Avon that Blake had about as much interest in a relationship right now as he did in taking a long, relaxing vacation). But his hands where trembling slightly where he'd braced them on the chair at Avon's desk, and he _loved_ Avon.

"How do you like it?" Avon asked, keeping his own voice light. "Am I a prostitute? Am I myself?"

"Yourself," Blake said, surprisingly quietly, in a way that made Avon realise how full and resonant Blake's voice normally was.

"Good. I prefer to save that kind of complication for a rainy day. Well, Blake. Tell me what to do. _That_ should excite you."

"Shut up, Avon," Blake said, voice rough and soft at once, eyes still so intense Avon felt his cock twitching under the weight of being looked at. Blake drew a ragged breath, like he'd been crying. "On the bed." He swallowed. "Hands and knees."

His voice was sharper and more like itself, and Avon found that, too, exciting.

Blake came up behind him, and Avon shivered as large hands hovered over his body, then made contact. Blake's hand swept from the soft nape of Avon's neck, over the tips of his ears and through his loose dark hair. Down the slope of his back, along the edge of his corset. They trembled over the corset's leather planes, and then moved down over Avon's arse, clutching it firmly. Over the backs of his thighs to the rims of his boots, and down the long, leather lengths of them. Avon felt hot and uncomfortable in the boots, but somehow the discomfort involved in being prepared for Blake like this was itself immensely arousing. Avon bit his lip hard and made a sound like 'nngh' as Blake softly ghosted over and then roughly twisted a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Without thinking about it, Avon slid his thighs wider apart. But Blake wasn't ready for that just yet – and he always did have to have everything on his own schedule.

Blake tugged at the strings of Avon's corset – more like ribbons, if Avon was honest. Perhaps, he thought, he _had_ pushed the fashion envelope a bit too far this time, though it didn't _feel_ much like a mistake at present. Blake played with the tension, quickly figuring out how the strings worked.

"You put this on too loosely," Blake said.His tone was much like his normal voice, but heavier. "The tension has to be something more like this." He pulled, and Avon's breath caught as his stomach tightened up and the boning pressed at his ribs.

"Blake––"

"Yes, Avon?" Blake idly ran a finger down Avon's cock, and then his hand drifted away to pursue further explorations elsewhere.

"Come on," Avon hissed.

"I'm sorry," Blake's voice had taken on that polite tone of feigned nonchalance he sometimes used, the tone that drove Avon to the brink of murder, "did you want something?"

Avon laughed slightly hysterically, giddy with lust and the lack of air. "Do you want me to fake it? 'Please Blake, please fuck me'––"

"Not until you mean it," Blake said, quite collectedly. "And I'll _make_ you mean it, Avon."

Fuck. He did seem likely to.

Blake found some lubricant in the bedside table, and tossed it to Avon. He presented a hand to Avon without comment, and Avon took his time slicking it up. One finger and the next, sliding his own fingers down Blake's and tracing them over Blake's palm. It was obscene and obvious and Avon didn't give a damn. By the end Blake's hand was trembling again, slightly, and Avon smirked.

Giving him a hard look, Blake disappeared behind Avon's back and used his dry hand to suddenly winch the corset tighter, then to give Avon's arse a hard _smack_. Avon yelped.

"Be good," Blake said in an even tone, shoving a finger into Avon as if in further reprimand. At two, Avon groaned and dropped his head. At three, he tried to fuck himself, but Blake's firm " _Avon_ " made him freeze, as much as it _hurt_ not to move.

"There," Blake said approvingly, and with a still slightly trembling hand he aligned his cock and slowly pushed in. Avon's shoulders gave at this point. Arse in the air, he must look a desperate spectacle. Hopefully Blake would fail to notice (or would notice and like it). The way the corset _squeezed_ him and Blake filled him was difficult to withstand unmoved. Blake started to build a steady rhythm, hand anchoring Avon's hip, keeping him where he wanted him. His other hand played with the ribbons and, after a moment, pulled them a touch tighter. It seemed to occur to Blake then that he could work the ribbons like reins.

"Ah!" Avon gasped at being used like that. "What––what is it about the clothes?" Blake didn't answer, though he did breathe a lot heavier, and Avon pressed on. "Is it that they're so flagrantly intended for sex? Is it that I'm dressed ... for you? It was always for you, Blake––" and his own aesthetic priorities, but this wasn't untrue, and it had the advantage of sounding better. "Or do you simply appreciate that I belong to you?"

Blake made a noise that made Avon's toes curl, and pulled the corset so tight Avon gasped. Blake fucked him hard, reaching a rough hand around to grab Avon's cock. Then, using the strings of the corset, he pulled Avon up and back, bent him like a bow so that he was almost sitting on Blake's cock, fucking up into him while he sharply bit Avon's neck. There was no air, he was being squeezed in a vice, there was nothing but Blake, full and hard and taking him. Avon couldn't think. He came with spots in his eyes, gasping, and almost felt like he came again when Blake, with some singular, efficient motion, ripped the string out of the corset entirely. Avon's lungs expanded, and his body contracted and released in wild flutters around Blake's cock. Blake came and then slumped over him, kissing his shoulders and the side of his face with stupid, thoughtless affection.

Avon gulped air and swatted Blake, who was heavy, off him. "Are you always that intense?"

"No," Blake said with consideration. "Only when I'm nervous, actually. Or afraid of losing my grip."

"You had literal reins," Avon pointed out.

Blake smiled. "True. Come here." He gathered Avon to him and sat up against the headboard.

"What ever gave you the impression that I am the sort of person who _cuddles after sex?_ " Avon asked crossly.

"Excellent instincts," Blake responded good-naturedly. "I'm sure you'll get used to it."

"And I'm sure _you'll_ get used to the new direction my wardrobe has taken."

"What."

"Oh, I mean it, Blake. I like these clothes. I especially like the reaction they provoke. I intend to wear them regularly."

"It's all well and good in _private_ , Avon, but––"

"But what, Blake?" Avon grinned at Blake slightly crazily – he knew his sex-mussed hair was, in part, sticking straight up. He didn't care. "Can't I make my own choices? Whatever happened to your vaunted regard for personal liberties?"

"I would _prefer_ it if you'd choose what I suggested."

Avon laughed. "Yes, I'm sure you would."

*

When Avon was too old for any kind of breath-play and walked with a silver-topped cane he thought quite dignified, he and Carnell sometimes lunched at the very highly regarded restaurant outside of the Psychostrategy Institute, of which Carnell was the head.

"How is the President?" Carnell would ask.

"You know precisely how the President is," Avon would reply, and they would order and discuss other things.

One day, Avon frowned at the menu. Something on it was rolled in a banana leaf and tied up in strings. "Incidentally, did you know at the time––"

"Wait a moment." Carnell pressed an end-timer button on his watch. "There. I had to cheat and rearrange the menu to get it, but I'm just inside my time limit, and that's the bet with my deputy director won. This is the corset question, isn't it? I'm not going senile in my dotage? Ah, good. Yes, I suspected."

Avon was old now, and had outlived most of his capacity to be embarrassed. "He thinks it was too much history in university, but that seems far too late for that sort of thing to set in."

Carnell snorted. "He's repressed some uncomfortable, shameful feelings he had as a boy reading 'Les Miserables' – his library records tell a story all their own. And then there was that rather risquécommunity-theatre production his favourite teacher was involved in that same year. Easy, really."

"Carnell – did the fate of the revolution _actually_ hinge on—?"

"Corsets? Avon, _really_. Of _course_ not. It hinged on neither of you going mad under admittedly incredible pressure and making exceptionally stupid decisions; on you both regularly relieving stress so as to avoid same; on you caring for individuals and being able to see past vast swathes of death, when the time was right. On neither of you managing to ruin what was simultaneously something terribly obvious and still rather delicate. Rather like the duck breast here, which I do think they're going to get right today – it's that Soolin woman's shift as chef de cuisine, and you know what a perfectionist she is."

Avon gestured with his cane and some irritation. "And did you really know all of that, and about your own participation and its attendant rewards, and about this damned lunch, while we sat there having tea?"

Carnell gave the cane a look that suggested he thought it was a mistake and gave Avon a benign smile. "I hoped, Avon. All one can do, really. And of course I didn't know about this lunch. Now you're just being paranoid. Still, one can _guess_ some things – how fleeting are all human passions compared with the massive continuity of ducks!"


End file.
